


a king of infinite space, bound in a nutshell

by opheliasnettles



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Flowers, I’m sorry, M/M, Multi, Ophelia Lives, i don’t know what this is or why i made it, it’s a really bad metaphor, just a danish prince chilling with his gf and bf, metaphors about cutlery, while his cool mom runs the country
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24957169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opheliasnettles/pseuds/opheliasnettles
Summary: i could be bounded in a nutshell, hamlet thinks, and count myself a king of infinite space.and who would be displeased in a nutshell, with such companions? the drowned woman and the gentle student.
Relationships: Hamlet/Horatio (Hamlet), Hamlet/Horatio/Ophelia (Hamlet), Hamlet/Ophelia (Hamlet), Horatio & Ophelia
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	a king of infinite space, bound in a nutshell

**Author's Note:**

> hi im tired i dont know what this is. gonna talk about drowning a medium amount in this just fyi

_i could be bounded in a nutshell,_ hamlet thinks, _and count myself a king of infinite space._

and who would be displeased in a nutshell, with such companions?

the drowned woman and the gentle student. 

what lovers hamlet has! they say, often, they are a set of silverware. horatio, a soft-edged spoon, for warm soups on cold days. hamlet, a pronged fork, a versatile utensil for most uses. ophelia, a pointed knife, a precision instrument to tear through meat and plant alike. best used in conjunction, though useful separate. rare is the meal that asks for solely a knife and spoon - as such is the love between horatio and ophelia. they are good friends, they take longer walks than hamlet could bear and speak of poetry and art and music, but they do not love each other the way hamlet loves them and they him. 

hamlet has not felt so happy since before he could comprehend what death was. he has his head positioned snugly in the crook of ophelia’s neck, and horatio has his arms around his waist, and they are all neatly nestled together. they are sated on their day, a romp through the forest in the morning, crisp leaves and crisp air and crisp ground, ophelia bounding ahead in her doublet and hose, horatio holding his arm out for hamlet to balance himself against. a quiet afternoon in the library, hamlet resting in ophelia’s lap as she sews her latest project, something or other to make her dresses less dress-like (she now refuses to wear dresses, they weigh her down), horatio skimming through pages and chewing on the inside of his lip until hamlet or ophelia remind him to stop. tea and bed early, for hamlet, to help him recover from the poisoned wine and subsequent illness. 

he is weak, yes, ill, yes, but his strength comes back little by little. he recovers by the patience of horatio. 

his train of thought is cut off by ophelia spitting up a mouthful of river water with a quiet gurgle. hamlet feels it seep through his hair. it is a fact of life now, weeks after she sank like a stone to the bottom of the creek, that she dribbles murky water from her mouth and plucks fresh, vibrant violets from her hair. it is impossible, of course, and there are those who tread carefully around her out of fear. some who scorn the drowned woman as a sign of evil. she doesn’t mind, she tells hamlet, something changed in her when gertrude dragged her body to shore and she cannot be bothered to hide it. 

though hamlet had been feverish, poisoned, dying in his bed when ophelia’s rescue had passed, what he hears has put together a story. 

his mother had watched the girl dive from her willow branch with stones in her pockets and her mouth bound with flowers. his mother had dove in after her, swimming to the muddy bottom of the river, grabbing her wrists and pulling her dead weight up to the surface. dripping wet and still choking on water did they stumble into the danish court, ophelia limp in his mother’s grasp. 

claudius’ passing remark was callous and cold, something about ruined silks and lost jewels, and that stuck a point of doubt in gertrude’s mind. 

it was later that afternoon that horatio began to suspect poison. this, hamlet remembers. horatio had lifted a bottle of something terribly cloying and viscous to hamlet’s lips. _drink this, sweet prince_ , he said. _it will help._ hamlet drank, he let it slide down his raw throat and coat his mouth. he remembers horatio taking the cloth from his forehead, once cool but now too hot, wiping the curls from hamlet’s sweat-soaked brow, placing a kiss where his fingers had been. there were many words hamlet had in his mind, but his clumsy, swollen tongue could manage none of them, and he fell again into a fitful, feverish haze. 

he slept, apparently, for two days. during which time horatio presented evidence of claudius poisoning hamlet, and that coupled with his disregard for the drowned ophelia was enough. he was exiled within hours. the crown was placed on gertrude’s head.

he woke to horatio peering over him, his mother in her crown with a similar worried expression, and ophelia weaving him a wreath of flowers. ophelia had leant over to kiss him, but she had to turn away to choke up some water onto his sleeve. he laughed. ophelia kissed him, then when his mother’s back was turned for a moment horatio stole his lips, too. he wasn’t quite brief enough, and gertrude caught a glimpse of her son with his lips on horatio’s. she said nothing. she must have known. none of it matters much anymore.

denmark has rid itself of rotting, and it blooms once again under the watchful eye of his mother. 

hamlet could not be happier, in his nutshell. 


End file.
